


Exeunt

by latin_cat



Category: Sharpe - All Media Types
Genre: Afterlife, Angst, Deathfic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-10
Updated: 2012-05-10
Packaged: 2017-11-05 03:20:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/401887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/latin_cat/pseuds/latin_cat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The death of Wellington marked the death of an era.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Departure

**Walmer, Kent ~ September 1852**

The Duke was dead. That was all there was to it; Wellington was dead and the nation wept.

On 17th September, with infinite care Wellington was sealed up in his coffin and a detachment of 33rd, the Duke’s old regiment, arrived at Walmer Castle to stand vigil over the body of the former Warden of the Cinque Ports. Plans for the funeral had not yet been fully settled, but the Queen and public opinion expressed a wish that Wellington be given a state funeral; which meant a discreet service and burial in the churchyard of St. Mary’s as His Grace had desired was out of the question. The Duke’s room was hung with black crêpe, six tall candles lit and the great adversary of Napoleon was left, for the time-being, to rest where he had for twenty-three years slept upon his old campaign bed - only this time never to wake again.

 

\---------

 

To Mr. Coult the Younger, solicitor to the firm Messrs Coult of London, there was one particular entry in the deceased Duke’s will that stood out amongst the others;

_“To Colonel Richard Sharpe, late of the 95th Rifle and South Essex Regiments; my eternal gratitude.”_

It was a rather peculiar sentiment, Mr. Coult had thought, to find in the middle of such a straightforward will, and the Good Lord knew Mr. Coult had seen some eccentric requests in his time; the most recent being the late Lord Ashton’s bequest of a stocking to his mistress, _‘of which she has such fond recollections’_. The Duke had left a letter which was to be dispatched to the colonel in the event of his death, along with a forwarding address in Normandy. What Colonel Sharpe might do with the Duke’s gratitude Mr. Coult had not the slightest idea; however that was Colonel Sharpe’s business, not Mr. Coult’s, and Mr. Coult dutifully made arrangements for the letter to reach its intended recipient.

 

\---------

 

It was not until a week after Wellington had breathed his last that anyone noticed the rifleman.

On the morning of the 21st the sentries had changed over those standing vigil and they suddenly saw that a green jacket had entered the room with them; only whilst the four redcoats took up their positions at the corners of the coffin, the rifleman stood at the Duke’s head, his sword – a heavy, brutal cavalry sabre – reversed, head bowed. He was an old man; tall and slim, his hair grizzled and unkempt, the badge on his battered shako claiming that he belonged to the 95th, and on his breast were displayed both the Peninsula and the Waterloo campaign medals. A veteran, then. His face was grim, displaying a singularly severe countenance deep-tanned by the sun, lined with age and numerous battle scars, in which sat two hard green eyes. The men of the 33rd had not the least clue as to his identity, save the tattered red sash about his waist stated that he was an officer, and therefore must have reason to be there. So the sentries let him be, and when the guard changed again later that day he relinquished his post, vanishing down a corridor without speaking a word. Nobody reported to have seen the man about the castle for the remainder of the day, but come midnight of the 22nd the officer was once more at his post; solemn head bowed and silent as the grave.

Arthur Richard Wellesley, now the second Duke of Wellington, was the first to question the rifleman. On entering the dark room containing his father’s mortal remains he had been somewhat startled to see the tattered green uniform amongst the red. Respect for the dead restrained him from immediately questioning the man; though once he had left the room he went to tax the officers of the 33rd. But none seemed any wiser as to the presence or identity of the rifleman; swore they had believed he was there with the duke’s permission. The mystery having thus deepened, Arthur Wellesley waited until the guard changed over, then confronted the officer when he emerged into the corridor, taking a hold of the man’s arm and stepping directly into his path.

“Who are you?”

The rifle officer stared blankly at the new duke, his green eyes bearing an expression of irritation as he looked the much younger man up and down, finally fixing him with a glare that made Arthur Wellesley shudder as he took in the ancient and numerous scars on the old soldier’s face. Eventually he spoke.

“Colonel Richard Sharpe, 95th Rifles.”

Somewhere in the back of Arthur Wellesley’s mind a memory stirred. The name was somehow familiar; he had heard his father mention it before on several occasions, but he could not for the life of him remember why. His eyes flickered down to take in the officer’s dishevelled appearance, a feeling of disgust that the man had not made a better effort for such an august duty; then his attention was caught by a telescope tucked into the frayed sash – an unusually fine instrument which seemed oddly out of place on such an unkempt person. He observed a small brass plaque affixed to the casing and, squinting, Arthur Wellesley was able to make out the words; _“In Gratitude. AW. September 23rd 1803”_.

The date of Assaye. Gratitude. The passage Coult had read out in his father’s will; _To Colonel Richard Sharpe… my eternal gratitude._ Arthur Wellesley’s eyes widened in sudden recognition, for now he knew who the strange rifleman was and, what was more, explained his presence alongside the old Duke’s remains. Swallowing awkwardly, he released his grip on the skinny but perversely well-muscled arm.

“He was grateful to you,” he said quietly, the slightest tremble of emotion apparent in his voice. “We all were. He never forgot you.”

The ghost of a smile passed across Sharpe’s battle-scarred face.

“I know, sir.”

Arthur Wellesley swallowed again as he struggled to keep his composure, his knees suddenly weak, and gave a curt nod.

“Good. Very good.”

 

\---------

 

The Duke’s body stayed at Walmer through the remainder of September and October. On 9th and 10th November the castle opened its doors so the local population could pay their respects to the departed hero. Over 9,000 came, each filing through the small room; weeping, whispering, gasping their sorrow and ogling at the black coffin. The soldiers of the 33rd played a vital role in keeping order, shepherding the crowds through and keeping a tab on souvenir hunters. Many also noticed the old rifle officer at the head of the Duke’s coffin. The thin grey smoke of the candles distorted the atmosphere, and the flames guttered in the draughts from the open door sending the light dancing across his scarred face in such a manner that he appeared more forbidding than ever. Those that saw him thought him the most fearsome of guard dogs. 

Richard Sharpe had not left his post. Every night through to mid-morning he would take his place at the head of the Duke’s coffin, departing only when the guard was relieved and not to be seen until the following night. Nobody knew where he went during that time; he didn’t mess with the 33rd, nor did anybody have the least idea where he was quartered and he was never seen to leave or enter the castle. But although by this time curiosity surrounding the officer had reached fever-pitch no attempt was made to press him for answers, as a couple of months before the second duke had left instructions that Mister Sharpe was not to be troubled. However, it was not so much Arthur Wellesley’s wishes that kept the curious at bay; there was something about the rifleman, something unnerving in his war-weary countenance and haunted eyes that suggested a querying man might find it in his best interest to mind his own business. Therefore the curious had no option but to hold their tongues and speculate, whilst Wellington’s sentinel stood by with a ready sword and watchful eye.

 

\---------

 

Come 14th November the time finally came for Wellington to leave the castle. He was to be taken by train to London to the Chelsea Hospital where he would remain a further three days in state before the funeral at St. Paul’s. It had been decreed that he should be buried in the crypt beside Nelson; the greatest sailor now joined by the greatest soldier. A strange irony, really; as the two had only met once due to a twist of fate, yet they would now spend eternity in each other’s company.

As the coffin was brought out to the waiting hearse the Duke’s family and servants lined the way, dressed like so many ravens as they watched Wellington depart on his last journey from the house by the sea which he had so adored. The 33rd acted as coffin bearers; six of their light company shouldering the weight of the coffin whilst the remainder of the detachment formed a guard of honour behind, Sharpe leading the way, setting a steady pace for the following redcoats. No one had asked him to head the procession, but in a way no one had expected any different. He stepped to one side as the coffin was placed in the hearse, then drew his sword and brought it up smartly into a salute. A moment later the funeral carriage moved off, the brass-studded harnesses jingling as the sable horses tossed their heads; then the hearse was through the gate, and Wellington was gone.

Sharpe stayed to attention until the hearse was out of sight, then sheathed his sword and made his way to where he had secreted his greatcoat, pack and rifle behind a discarded barrel on the far side of the courtyard. Putting on greatcoat and pack he slung the rifle over his right shoulder, replaced the battered shako on his head and followed the Duke out of the gate. He would not go to London; there was no need. Sharpe had said his farewell, and it was time to go home.

 

\---------

 

“Deceased?”

“Yes, sir; sometime earlier this year. In August, I believe.”

Mr. Coult regarded the letter addressed to Colonel Sharpe gravely. A month beforehand, and with no issue they could trace; a pity. He would of course have to inform the now Duke of Wellington of the inconvenience and seek his advice as to the fate of the missive. A pity. Indeed, a pity.

The solicitor’s attention then moved to the telescope. Apparently the late Richard Sharpe had willed it to the Duke, now due with the rest of his estate to be passed on to his heir. It was a fine instrument, obviously well cared for, with a small brass plaque set into the polished wooden outer tube;

_“In Gratitude. AW. September 23rd 1803”_

Under the circumstances ‘AW’ could only be the then Sir Arthur Wellesley, and it seemed what Mister Sharpe had received in life, in death he now saw fit to return. Mr. Coult felt a mild curiosity as to what service the Colonel must have rendered the Duke, but it was swiftly pushed aside. It was not seemly for a solicitor to be curious, and curiosity invariably led to indelicacy.

“A pity,” he said aloud. “Thank you, Thomas; I shall inform the duke and attend to the matter directly.”

The clerk left, closing the office door and Mr. Coult rose from his desk, placing the telescope and the unopened letter in the safe behind him. He then sat down again, taking up a fresh sheet of paper to begin his letter to the duke.


	2. Arrival

**Somewhere ~ Sometime**

“Should you not like us to wait with you, sir?”

“No, it’s alright, Pat; you go on ahead.”

Patrick Harper looked at his colonel warily. Unlike the rest of the men Sharpe still bore the appearance he had at death, that of an old man, albeit one in uniform, which meant that there was a chance that if left alone he might become stranded.

“Are you sure? We’re not hurrying anywhere.”

“For once,” Perkins chimed in, which made several of the others grin.

“No, there’s no point.” Sharpe turned to smile reassuringly at them, but Harper could see the green eyes betrayed his friend’s unease. “You’ve waited long enough for me. Won’t be much longer, now; I’ll catch you up.”

It was true they had been waiting a long time. A few had already moved on, but most had been here years, some decades. And it was not just the Chosen Men of the 95th but some of the 60th, the South Essex Light Company, even a few of 33rd; all waiting for the day when they would be led off on their final march. And then in August Sharpe had arrived having outlived them all, and he had been greeted enthusiastically by his men; but it had soon become clear that the old colonel was still waiting for someone else, and a month later when he briefly returned to the World it became even clearer that he would not and could not move on without that person. Garrard placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder and squeezed it reassuringly.

“I shouldn’t worry. He’ll turn up; he always does.”

“Aye, in his own time,” Sharpe murmured, staring out at the horizon thoughtfully. Garrard gave him a concerned glance. He had at first not believed Sharpe when he had divulged the name of who it was he was waiting for – in a way still did not believe him, and suspected that his old friend might be deluding himself as to the affections of the person in question – but Sharpe was adamant. He would come. The captain looked to the sergeant for support, but Harper just shook his head in resignation and signed for the men to get up. There was nothing they could do. He gave Sharpe an awkward pat of the shoulder before lowering his arm.

“Don’t go getting yourself lost now, Dick.”

Starting, Sharpe turned to his friend, green eyes wide with surprise.

“Me? Lost?”

“Well, you’ve done it before…”

“Get out of here, you stupid buggers!”

Garrard turned to hide his grin whilst Harper held up a quelling hand.

“That we will, sir; that we will… Just don’t take too long in following us, as you know once we’ve gone we can’t come back to look for you.”

Sharpe looked up, a small smile stretching at his old lips.

“I know, Pat,” he said quietly. “And I will follow you on, I promise.”

He turned to the rest of the men, who were standing uncertainly in their loose files.

“Thank you. Thank you, all of you.”

They grinned back at him, uncertain nods. Sharpe smiled back, then turned to Garrard.

“Lead ‘em off, Tom?”

“I’d be honoured to, Dick. Sergeant Harper?”

“Right you are, Mister Garrard, sir. Shoulder arms!” the large Irishman bellowed. “Right face! Forward… march!”

The soldiers moved off, green and red jackets alike, marching in step to the drums and the fife along the road heading East. As they went Hagman’s voice came floating back on the evening breeze, growing fainter as they were lost to the horizon.

_“Here’s adieu to all charges and juries, justice and old bailey too;  
For they bound me to King George’s army.  
So adieu to old England, adieu.  
And it’s o’er the seas and I wander, to the standard of red, white and blue;   
For they gave me the king’s old hard bargain.  
So adieu to old England, adieu...”_

Sharpe watched until they were gone, and not long after the sound of the drums died away leaving him alone in the silence. He turned his gaze back to the road, looking towards the West. He stood almost motionless, leaning in the doorway of the farmhouse; arms folded, his eyes never leaving the skyline, a worried frown creasing his already age-rumpled brow. It was late, the sun slowly sinking beneath the hills so that it turned the clouds delicate shades of pink and gold. It could not be much longer now. It couldn’t be.

“It is such a change,” a voice suddenly came from behind him, breaking the stillness. “To see a sunset with you and not have to worry what may be waiting on the other side of the hill.”

Sharpe’s heart leapt in sudden elation; yet he did his best to disguise it, not moving from his current posture and forcing his features into a scowl.

“Do you know how bloody long I’ve been waiting?” he growled, not turning to face the newcomer.

“Not more than a few months,” said Wellington, moving to stand beside Sharpe in the doorway. Sharpe looked him up and down, seeing that the Duke was once more a young man, resplendent in the red coat and gold lace of a field marshal. He looked as he had done about the time of Assaye; thirty-three years old. It was always thirty-three.

“Didn’t hang about, did you?”

Wellington shrugged, running his tongue around the inside of his mouth appreciatively, a secret delight in feeling the smooth enamel firmly in place along his jaw. It was wonderful to have his own teeth again.

“No reason not to.” 

“So what kept you?”

“I stayed to watch the funeral.” Wellington pulled a disgusted face. “Did you see that monstrous carriage they made? Hideous! Must have weighed at least 18 tons, and as for the poor beasts that had to pull it…! Albert loved it, of course; which only goes to prove the Germans are completely devoid of taste.”

“It’s been a week since then. I didn’t think even your funeral could last for a week!”

“It did not.”

“So what kept you?” Sharpe repeated impatiently.

Wellington bowed his head thoughtfully, a look of uncertainty passing across his face before he spoke again.

“Victoria was crying,” he said at last, somewhat awkwardly. “She was very upset by it all.”

By Victoria he meant his eldest granddaughter. In the few years she had so far lived the two had become inordinately close; the small girl determined to follow in the great Duke’s footsteps and slaughter Frenchmen, much to her mother’s dismay. He had sat at her bedside every night for a week, holding her when she needed to be held, wiping away tears, stroking her hair until she slept. Somehow it had made the pain of parting so suddenly lessen; for him as much as for Victoria. 

“I shouldn’t worry too much,” Sharpe said gently. “She’ll come to terms with it; they always do.”

Wellington nodded again, swallowing at the sudden lump in his throat. His demise had not been expected by any degree, though he had been so old; only the previous morning he had been careering around the living room with his grandchildren, Victoria on his back whilst her two brothers set about throwing cushions at him, her little sister Mary held in the arms of an exasperated nursemaid. He would miss the children greatly.

There was a long, tense silence as each man momentarily retreated into his own thoughts. It was not that they lacked subjects for conversation; indeed, having spent well over two decades apart they had more than enough to say. Perhaps even too much. But they would have plenty of time to talk later, so for now they just stood quietly, sharing in the presence of the other.

“I presume, then, that you did not get my letter,” Wellington said eventually.

“Then you presume wrong,” said Sharpe airily. “The solicitor’s man came a few days after your death. Luckily he met Georges on his way to market, else he’d have found the house empty. I was able to take a look at it whilst they were having a drink.” He smiled coyly at the Duke. “I didn’t know you had it in you, Arthur.”

Wellington, despite himself, felt a slight blush creeping up under his collar.

“It… took me a while to write it,” he admitted awkwardly, averting his gaze to a patch of grass several feet away. “I had tried before, many times, but the words would not come. Then not that long ago I suddenly realised that I still had things I needed to say, and was fast running out of time to say them; so I wrote it all down and hoped that you one day might read it.”

“I just wish you hadn’t left it so long,” Sharpe said quietly.

“It was never that simple.”

“I know.”

“You could have come to see me, though.”

“I did consider it once or twice.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Sharpe shrugged.

“Don’t know. There was always Lucille to think of, and the farm... Maybe it was the thought of all those honours; put me right off. Fucking a general ain’t the same as fucking a field marshal or the bloody Prime Minister!”

Wellington let out a low laugh at the casual profanities, lifting his gaze to the darkening sky. Dear God, how he had missed this man!

“Perhaps if I’d had someone to talk some sense into my ear I should never have been such a bloody fool as to take the job!”

“You ain’t a fool, Arthur.”

“I was then,” he said, shaking his head. “If I had known even a tenth of what I know now I would have said ‘no’. Still, it does not matter now.”

“No, not any more.”

Another silence.

“Well,” Sharpe said suddenly. “At least now I know why you kept that old bed...”

Wellington smiled warmly as he remembered the paragraph from the letter referring to his campaign bed. _‘…Sometimes the memory of its meagre comfort tricks my slumbering mind into believing I am once again in Spain, and that I may wake to find you lying next to me or waiting outside my tent for orders; a vain hope, I admit, for you are never there, and it grieves me much to discover it.’_ How he had wrestled to find the correct turn of phrase, desperate to convey his feelings but ever fearful of appearing over-sentimental.

“It was true, though,” he said, meeting Sharpe’s eyes and as ever admiring their clear green depths. “As time passed it was the only way I could remember you clearly; but every day I woke to find you not there. I reasoned it was better to have you in my dreams then not at all.”

“Were you really that lonely, Arthur?”

Wellington shrugged.

“Never, sometimes, not often; always.” He smiled humorlessly. “After all, how could the Duke of Wellington ever want for company? There were times I had so much company I could not bear it; but then there were the times when I thought about you, about where you might be and what you might be doing. Those times I felt as if I were the loneliest man on God’s earth.”

“You daft old bugger,” Sharpe said affectionately, a smile coming to his face and Wellington returned a lop-sided grin.

“I appreciated your coming to the castle. You didn’t have to.”

“I did,” Sharpe said firmly, the grin disappearing instantly, his expression deadly serious. So much emotion conveyed in two little words. Then he shrugged, saying more lightly; “And besides, how else would I have got to meet your so charming family?”

“You nearly ended my son’s dukedom before it had begun,” Wellington growled. “His heart stopped when he discovered that according to Coult he had been conversing with a phantom for three months! Fortunately it started beating again, else there would have been a pair of Wellingtons joining you today.”

Sharpe let out a snort and bit his lip in an attempt to halt the smile curling at the corners of his mouth.

“Aye, right tragic that would’ve been. He seemed like a nice lad.”

“I doubt you’ll think of him that way when you hear that he burned the letter.”

“Burnt it?”

“Yes, burnt it,” Wellington said ruefully. “Mainly so that there could be no scandal, but also because he did not believe it.”

Sharpe’s heart sank. He had for some reason hoped that other eyes would one day have looked upon those meticulously penned lines and seen the true nature of their relationship. A foolish hope, he now realised. He himself had written a few words; a small volume of memoirs jotted down many years ago, mostly of his time in India and the Peninsula, but containing also two particularly vivid accounts of their nights together; one spent comforting each other after the siege of Badajoz, the second at Toulouse when they had received the news of Bonaparte’s abdication (He smiled inwardly at the memory of the latter, recalling how the then General had buggered him near senseless that night). Never intended for publication, of course – more for his own sake to remind him of those times when memory became too frail; but he could not recall what had become of them. Now the letter was gone too, and so the world would forget Richard Sharpe.

“And the telescope?” he asked hesitantly.

“That he kept,” Wellington said flatly. “He may be able to accept you as my saviour, Richard, and perhaps even my friend; but certainly not as my lover.”

Sharpe nodded. That was how it had always been, and seemed it always would be.

Sensing his companion’s moroseness, Wellington cupped Sharpe’s face in his hands, raising it so he could level their gazes and rubbed a thumb over one cheekbone, feeling the wrinkled skin and remembering it when it had been still relatively smooth and not yet sagged.

“But that is not important,” he whispered. “What happens now is what is important. Will you not let go yet, my dear? Surely there is nothing more to hold on for?”

Sharpe closed his eyes, shivering slightly as he felt the touch he remembered so well; that touch he had not felt for nigh on twenty years. It nearly undid him, there and then, so many memories and emotions were reawakened in his breast. Arthur was right; there was nothing left, nothing more to hold him here or in this form. But not yet. Not just yet.

“There is,” said Sharpe quietly. “Just one more thing.”

And then Wellington found his lips captured in a tender kiss, calloused hands and stubble scraping against his skin as he opened his mouth to that achingly familiar tongue, tasting what had so long been reduced to lifeless memory, breathing the scent that brought back to mind so many battles past, so many seemingly lost causes turned to victory and of dark nights shared in secret. It seemed to last for an eternity – which perhaps it did, as time seemed to have no meaning here – and when at last they parted they just held each other for a good long while, not daring to let go. Eventually Sharpe raised his head, resting his mouth next to the Duke’s ear.

“ _Now_ there is nothing else.”

Then, taking a step back and freeing himself from his lover’s arms, Sharpe became young again. Wellington watched, blue eyes glistening with pleasure, as the rifleman’s sparse hair turned from white to its old gold, growing in thickness and covering his scalp once more, wrinkled skin smoothing, bent shoulders straightening until the Richard Sharpe of 33 years stood before him, a broad grin across his face and his green eyes alight with mirth. Taking him in his arms once more they kissed again – more passionately this time – Wellington’s fingers tangling in dirty-gold hair, entwined in each others’ arms, crushing the breath from them as now there was nothing between them, nor would they ever be parted again.

“Shall we follow on?” Wellington queried when at last they paused to take breath.

Sharpe’s face went deadpan.

“What makes you think you’re going where I am?”

Wellington’s eyes widened in shock, staring at his lover with a mixture of disbelief and horror, all of his previous joy dissipating in a second. He had never considered, not for a moment… Surely he would have known…? But then he saw the tell-tale gleam in the rifleman’s eyes, and he let out a low chuckle, a relieved smile slowly spreading over his features.

“You _bastard!_ ”

Sharpe grinned.

“Always.”

Wellington gave a harsh bark of laughter and Sharpe, still grinning, took hold of his hand and together they walked along the road, out towards the East where so many had gone before them. The morning stars joined in their laughter, their eyes meeting the rising sun as they trod the path which led beyond the horizon. Sharpe’s heart soared. He did not need the roll of drums nor the sound of trumpets, the tears of happiness in Patrick’s eyes, the cheers of his men, their thumps on his back, Hogan’s boisterous greeting to the both of them or Henry Wellesley pumping his arm enthusiastically to know that there was nothing more to fear. He looked over to his lover, and Arthur smiled back.

They had arrived.


End file.
